Hostage
by susieq666
Summary: Horatio is taken hostage. He has no idea by whom, or why, and is painfully aware that he's been unable to leave any clue or message to help anyone find him. His only hope is to escape, but that seems impossible. Meanwhile, his team struggles to find some trace of where he's gone.
1. Chapter 1

HOSTAGE

Chapter 1

Consciousness slowly returned, and Horatio became aware of the cold damp concrete floor beneath him. It was pitch dark. He drew a couple of deep breaths - it would be all too easy for panic to set in…

He tried to move, and realised that his hands were tied behind his back, but, oddly, his ankles were free. Not that he could move. Yet. It seemed bitterly cold, and he shivered convulsively, feeling the cold floor against bare skin… arms and legs bare…. not his body…

Very gradually, some sensation crept back. A splitting migraine-like headache. And agony in his shoulders, where his hands had been tied back. For how long, he wondered. It was still pitch black, and very quiet and still. Indoors, somewhere… Night-time? Or simply no vents to the outside? He suspected both.

He tried to move his hands, and couldn't feel them. Numb from the cable-ties - he thought that was what had been used - round his wrists. Weakly, he pushed himself to his knees, gasping as the pain shot through his head… And tried to remember.

xxxxxxxx

It had been a hard day at work, and late by the time he got onto the beach. But a run always calmed him down, unwound him, so he was able to eat and sleep. Short run, this evening… The sun was already low, the tourists heading home. Still hot, and humid… He got back to his favorite spot, opposite his condo, and sat down on the sand, taking a drink of water, running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair, lifting it from his scalp to cool off… Relaxing… He pulled his keys out of his belt pouch… _Ought to get back…_

He didn't hear the man approach.

"Horatio Caine?"

He looked up, but the man had the setting sun behind him and was only a silhouette. "Who wants to know?"

He was playing for time, all his instincts immediately on high alert. He had little on his side. His badge and weapons were locked away in his bedroom safe. The belt he wore carried only his water bottle, some small change… and his cell. He closed his hand tightly round his keys.

The man laughed - not a friendly sound. "Just being polite - I know who you are. Stand up." A slight accent… maybe Scandinavian..?

Horatio stood. Not because he had been ordered to, but because he felt too vulnerable with the stranger towering over him. Even with both of them standing, the man still topped his own height by three or four inches. Then he saw the gun. "So you'll shoot me here? A public beach in Miami? Think you'll get away with that?" It sounded far calmer than he felt.

"And you think anyone will take any notice of a gunshot? Come running to your aid? Come on, Lieutenant, you know the public better than that…"

He didn't really want the banter, but he was weighing up his options. In truth, not many. He could lunge at the man's face - his keys could do some damage… But the gun would almost certainly be fired - and it was pointing straight at his belly… It _might _not kill him… Same if he punched the man, or kneed him in the groin… He didn't recognise him - a tall well-built blond Caucasian - hired thug probably…

"What do you want with me?"

"Me? Nothing at all. Just sent to fetch you… Walk." He grabbed his shoulder, spun him round, and Horatio felt the gun muzzle up against his spine… which certainly _would_ kill him. "Walk. Now."

Horatio began to do as he was told. His mind was racing. All he could hope for now was that he could get a message out. He still had his phone… But even as he thought it, his captor seemed to have the same thought. He tore the belt off him, and felt in the pouches, finding the phone straight away.

"Sorry, Lieutenant - I can't let you keep this."

"I didn't think you would." He hoped the man would discard it, even if he smashed it. At least it might be a clue if anyone came looking for him. But he put it in his pocket. And the gun muzzle was jabbed harder into his back. Horatio pretended to stumble and managed to drop his keys into a patch of rough grass. Small clue, but it was all he had.

He was frogmarched to a waiting SUV. The engine was running, another man, dark-haired, in the driving-seat. He saw only the back of his head, but didn't recognise him either. He was pushed into the back seat, the blond man beside him, the door slammed and the vehicle moved off. His hands were pulled behind him and some form of handcuffs fastened tight.

All the windows were tinted, and the light was fading, but Horatio knew Miami well. There was nothing he could do now but memorise the route.

He never saw the syringe coming, until the needle pierced his bare arm. He turned to look at his captor, found the gun in his face, and his vision faded abruptly to black.

xxxxxxxx

His memory was coming back. His evening run. A gun held on him… He knew he'd been drugged, though he had no idea what with. With difficulty, he got to his feet, unsteady, almost falling, but staggering until his shoulder hit a solid wall. He leant against it, trying to get his balance. The pain in his head was bad enough to make him retch, but he sensed he hadn't been beaten, hadn't been hit on the head. That it was a reaction to whatever he'd been dosed with. Which meant it would pass…

With his hands tied behind him, he turned his back to the wall, and began to feel his way round his prison. It was still pitch black. If there had been a trace of light, he thought his night vision would have picked it up by now. There wasn't.

The lack of sensory input was something that could easily lead to full-blown panic. Even he, used to danger, and fraught situations, could feel a trace of it. He had to consciously fight it down. _Concentrate…_

Slowly, he edged his way along the wall, alert to anything protruding, expecting his shins to hit something unseen. God, it was cold… He wished he had on something more than shorts and a sleeveless shirt… He reached a corner, and started feeling the next section of wall. He immediately stumbled over an object that clanged metallically against the concrete. He squatted down, still with his back turned and felt around… A bucket… A wan smile touched his face - presumably it was for hygienic purposes… and he did need a pee. It was a major undertaking to ease his shorts down, from the back, position the bucket with his feet, and hope he aimed straight. Even more major to get his shorts back up again, but he felt better for it.

He really needed to release his hands, but, so far, hadn't found any means of doing it. He resumed his careful, back to the wall, exploration. The cell was small, about six feet by eight feet, he estimated. And it had a bed, or, at least, a wide shelf at about thigh height. No mattress, but what seemed to be a flimsy blanket. Better than the floor… There was also what felt like a small table and a folding metal chair.

Squatting down again, he felt round the chair's legs, round the hinges. As he had hoped, there were sharp pieces of metal on the cheap furniture. He eased his wrists against a sharp edge and began to work at the plastic tie. It was incredibly difficult to work behind his back, with his hands numb. He couldn't even feel if he was cutting himself, but at least the effort was warming him up. It seemed to take hours, not that he knew. He realised his watch was gone, and he couldn't have read it anyway. His shoulders hurt like hell, to the point where he thought he'd have to stop. Then suddenly, he felt a slight give in the ties, and the next second, his wrists were free.

He eased his arms forward, gasping at the protest from his shoulders, then sobbing aloud as the blood rushed back to his hands. He stumbled to where he thought the bed was, found it, and sat down, his hands shoved under his armpits, while he waited for the pain to stop. It eased, and he felt the warm wetness of blood. He wiped his hands on his shirt, then raised first one, then the other, to his mouth, finding several cuts, and sucking the blood from them. He didn't think they were bad, and, in any case, it seemed so much easier to think with his arms in the right place.

Except there seemed nothing to think about. He had no idea who had taken him. Or why. Or where he was. He was still half-drugged. Sore, in pain… He lay down on the hard wooden shelf, pulled the meager blanket round himself, and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

HOSTAGE

Chapter 2

Eric glanced at his watch and frowned. He turned to Ryan. "You seen Horatio this morning?"

Ryan barely looked up from the microscope. "Nope. Haven't looked, mind."

"No, but it's half past nine… He always walks round the labs before this…"

"Perhaps he's got court."

Eric went to find Calleigh. As Horatio's second-in-command, she would know… "Has Horatio got court or something?"

"Not that I'm aware. Do you need him? Anything I can do?"

"No." Eric shook his head. "Just… wondered where he was…"

Calleigh smiled sympathetically. "You're like a mother hen with that man. He's probably just held up somewhere."

"Probably."

"Give him a call, if you're worried."

"I'm not." _Not true, Eric… _He had an odd feeling that he could neither name nor rationalize. Out of sight of Calleigh, he quickly rang his boss's cell. Voicemail… He didn't leave a message.

During the morning, Eric tried the number half a dozen times, getting no answer. At nearly midday, he went back to Calleigh. This time, she seemed to share his concern. "You're right, it's very unlike him…"

"Can you spare me for half an hour? I'm going to drive round to his place…"

Calleigh nodded, frowning. "Let me know…"

xxxxxxxx

Spurning the elevator, currently at the penthouse, Eric sprinted up the six flights of stairs, to the door of Horatio's condo, and knocked loudly. He hadn't expected a reply, and didn't get one. He rang Horatio's number again - no answer, and he couldn't hear a phone ringing inside the apartment. He hesitated only briefly, then used a key to open the door. Horatio had given it to him months before, when his boss had been laid up with some virus, and Eric had been insistent on checking in on him… Horatio hadn't asked for the key back, and Eric had forgotten about it. Now he was supremely grateful.

He wasn't sure what he expected, but the place seemed completely normal. He checked the bedroom first - the bed was made, the room tidy but for a shirt on the bed. Eric picked it up - worn, not fresh… From memory, the one Horatio had been wearing the day before, but he couldn't be certain. He checked the other rooms. Nothing. The kitchen - normal… No part-eaten food, nothing to suggest a hasty or unscheduled exit.

Puzzled, Eric went out, locking the door carefully. The elevator was on the next floor this time, so he summoned it and rode down to the parking garage. He felt a deep surge of unease as he saw the Lexus in situ. He walked up to it, but it, like the apartment, looked untouched and normal. Its anti-theft device was flashing its little red light on the dashboard, and the doors were locked. Eric was loath to set off the alarm. He walked round to the trunk, examined it carefully, but saw no sign of tampering. Feeling self-conscious, he called Horatio's name, but everything was silent.

He walked up to street level and stood for a moment, looking across the narrow strip of parkland to the beach beyond. Then he called Calleigh.

"Well, he's not here. But his car is… I've been inside, and the place is untouched. No sign that anything happened, but something's not right, Cal."

"I agree. What do you want to do?"

"I don't really know… Calleigh, can you get someone to see when his phone was last used? What time he left work yesterday? That sort of thing? Phone me back. I'm going to have another look round here…"

Eric found it hard to think logically - he was too worried - and had to force himself into an investigative frame of mind. He stood outside the building, pondering. If Horatio had gone, but without his car, it meant either he'd been on foot, or he'd gone in another car. But without letting anyone know? It seemed so unlikely…

Eric's first thought was an accident, but news of a traffic accident, even if it had involved a pedestrian, would have got back to them. So an attack? He had visions of Horatio lying in an alley somewhere… but it wasn't really that sort of area… Deep in thought, he walked over towards the beach.

His cell beeped. It was Calleigh. "Right… he last used his phone at six-oh-eight yesterday evening. It's been switched off since eight-fifty-two."

"He never switches it off…"

"Dave assures me it was. And is. He left work at about seven-thirty. Have you found anything?"

"Nothing. I don't even know what I'm looking for…"

"I'm going to do the usual missing person stuff - call the hospitals and so on… Keep me posted."

"Of course. You too."

Eric thought over what he knew. His boss had left work, late, driven home - safely, he assumed, since the car was there. He'd been indoors, changed his clothes - the shirt on the bed…. So what next? He knew Horatio often went for a run on the beach after work, even though, if he had, it would have been getting towards sunset. But he would assume he had. Eric walked onto the sand.

It was conceivable there had been an accident on the beach… But unlikely… Usually, there were plenty of people around. There had been no reports. Even if Horatio had ventured into the water, for some unknown reason… The man was a strong swimmer, and, again, there had been no reports of anything untoward. He double-checked, calling the police department, and the nearest lifeguard station. Nothing.

Eric walked slowly along the beach. There was nothing to see, but it helped him think. What he did realise, once he had thought about it, was that if something had happened here, it was about the only time Horatio would be unarmed. Even off-duty, he was authorised to carry a concealed weapon, and, Eric knew, he regularly wore a small Beretta in an ankle holster. But not if he was out running…

If he going to search the beach for signs of a struggle, he was going to need half the police department… It was a huge area, and he didn't even know if Horatio had been there.

As he walked back, Calleigh rang again. "Nothing, Eric. Not in a hospital… Or worse." He knew she would have checked the city morgue.

"I suppose that's good news. I'm coming back. There's nothing here." He stood on the patch of parkland, staring at the apartment block, searching for inspiration. He looked up and down the street, looking for CCTV cameras. There was one nearby, but he suspected it didn't cover the area immediately outside the entrance. But he'd check…

As he walked slowly back to the Hummer, something caught his eye, in the grass. He bent and picked up a bunch of keys. Instinct made him compare the key he had just used with the ones on the ring. A match. Stunned, he realised he was holding Horatio's keys. It had to be a message. No way would he have dropped them accidentally.

"Horatio…" He murmured aloud. "What are you telling me? What happened?"

He put the keys in his pocket, and quickly scanned the ground for anything else. He drew a blank, sprinted back to the car and drove back to the lab.


	3. Chapter 3

HOSTAGE

Chapter 3

Horatio did not expect to sleep, but a combination of stress and his semi-drugged state sent him quickly into oblivion. The sound of the door being unlocked jerked him awake. He realised the aches and pains had ebbed to a point where he felt almost normal. The door opened and flooded the cell with light. He had been in darkness a long time and was temporarily blinded. He shaded his eyes as he swung himself into a sitting position.

"Breakfast, Lieutenant." He recognised the blond giant's voice. "I see you've released your own handcuffs. Thank you. You saved me the trouble." The man put a tray on the table and turned to go.

"Wait! Who are you working for? Why am I here?"

His questions were ignored, as the door began to close.

"Wait a minute! Can I at least have some light?"

He heard the man speak to someone else outside, then a single light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, was illuminated, and the door was slammed shut. And locked.

He had rarely felt less like eating, but he knew the importance of keeping his strength up. He slid off the bed, and went to the tray. It was hardly cordon bleu. Some sort of lukewarm porridge - plastic bowl and spoon - no chance of making a weapon - and a paper cup of tasteless coffee - actually, it was so tasteless that he wasn't sure it _was_ coffee, but at least it was hot. He forced himself to eat and drink everything there was.

Then he looked round his prison. He had been right about the total darkness - there was what appeared to be an aperture, tightly covered with board, high on one wall. He wondered if the room was partly below ground - the walls were damp, as was the floor. And, despite it being daytime (he assumed) in Miami, it was still cold here. He had goose bumps, the red-gold hair standing up on his arms and legs. The sweat of the previous day had long since dried. He could smell his own body, and really wanted a shave and a shower. He accepted it was hardly the most important thing at the moment, but he hated feeling dirty and unkempt, and reckoned he functioned better, feeling at less of a disadvantage, when he was clean and groomed. And a bit warmer. _Wishful thinking, Horatio… _There were no washing facilities, just the bucket, as the only nod towards personal hygiene.

He sat back on the bed and examined the cuts on his hands, as he tried to think. He thought he had probably been missed by now, that people would be looking for him. The trouble was, there would be no clues to help find him. Had he been taken from his condo, or his car, there might have been fingerprint evidence. Hell, he might even have been able to avert it, finding a weapon - anything - and fighting off his captor. He recognised a professional job - they had taken him when he was most vulnerable; unarmed, unprepared, and probably unseen - that end of the beach was the quietest - it was why he liked it. They must have been watching, to know his routine that well. He wondered if he'd become careless… Still, that previous evening, he had been unusually late home, so they must have been waiting. He closed his eyes and tried to recreate the scene as he had driven in. He didn't think the SUV had been there… He would have to have driven right by it to get into the parking garage… So who had been watching? And from where?

And did it help, apart from passing the time? Not a lot, he thought. He could see no way of escaping from this room. Even if he managed to uncover the aperture, it was too small to allow for escape. Which meant he had to wait for the door to be opened and take it from there…

He lay down and dozed. Not tired, but very bored. He hated inactivity, without even a book for company, and found it very hard to bear.

He had no idea how much time had passed when the door was next unlocked. Again, the blond man was there, grabbing him and slapping handcuffs - conventional ones, this time - on his wrists. Then he was pushed out and down a dimly-lit corridor. He was alert to any chance for escape, but the stone walls provided nothing. He was propelled up a short flight of steps - reinforcing his belief that they were underground - and into welcome daylight. The window, dirty enough to be almost opaque, looked out onto nondescript wasteland, ringed with a high wire fence… nowhere recognisable - disused industrial, he thought - but they were on the ground floor, which might prove helpful… He was hustled past, and into another room. A big area; one-time warehouse, perhaps; some boxes, newer than the surroundings, stacked at one end, otherwise empty. Across that, and into an office.

He had half expected to recognise his captor - one of Miami's crime bosses, or a gang leader… Even if he only knew him from mug shots… But Horatio was absolutely sure he had never before seen the man sitting there. He was about his own age, he thought, though it was difficult to tell. Thin, elegant in a white suit. And pure albino. White hair and eyebrows, pink eyes, the lot.

Horatio stared at him. Partly trying to make a connection with anything he had worked on. And partly because the man was such an unusual sight. The albino seemed amused at the scrutiny. He said nothing, but glanced up at the big bodyguard standing beside him. A dark man… Eastern European, Horatio thought.

"I think we've managed to surprise him, Rudi," the man said softly. His accent was English, and cultured. "Well now, Horatio Caine… I'm happy to meet you at last."

Horatio had got over his initial surprise. "I'd shake hands, but -" He shrugged.

"Ah, Kurt doesn't like to take chances." He indicated the blond giant, still standing next to Horatio.

"Who are you?"

"You don't know? You've been causing me a great deal of… inconvenience… for some time…"

Horatio frowned. "It's what I do." His brain still couldn't make the connection. Then, suddenly, it did. "You're the White Knight."

The albino laughed. "Your press christened me that. You weren't sure I existed, were you?"

White Knight Enterprises - his own team had coined that name - had been implicated in just about everything over the past twelve months; drugs, money laundering, counterfeiting, arms dealing… Each time they had solved one crime, even making numerous arrests, something else had popped up, with the same apparent connections. And all along, he had known they were missing the person or persons in overall control. That there was a big organisation running the show somewhere - possibly from outside the country - and he hadn't yet uncovered it. The rumor of the 'White Knight' had appeared about six months previously. He didn't know how it had started, but the name had stuck.

It was true that he had doubted such a person existed. That the organization was more likely down to the Russians, or possibly the Chinese… even though he had yet to prove it.

There seemed little point in denying it. "No, I wasn't sure."

"Well, as you see… My name is Bernard Murray. Sir Bernard Murray, if you want to be precise."

"You're English…"

"Oh, very. But my business interests are world-wide. Actually, I'm far from welcome in my own country, and, in any case, the opportunities there are limited. And the climate is terrible."

"So you inflicted yourself on my city…"

"For now, just for now…"

"What do you want with me? Killing me won't stop us coming after you."

"My dear man, I don't want to kill you! I just want your team distracted while I conclude some important business here. Then I'll be gone - out of your hair."

"Why do you think my absence makes any difference?"

"You, missing? In peril? What do you think they'll be concentrating on?"

"Their jobs."

Murray smiled. "They're good, your people, I'd never deny that. And getting a little too close for comfort, at the moment. But they are also devoted to you. So, your capture will provide a distraction."

"That's crap!"

"You think so? You're not that naïve, Lieutenant. At the moment you're simply absent without leave, but we'll up the ante a little, to keep their attention…"

Horatio didn't miss the slight nod to Kurt, but he could do nothing to avoid what followed, as the blond man struck him across the face. It wasn't even a punch, more a heavy back-handed slap, but he felt the blood gush from his nose, tasted blood in his mouth. A quick jabbed punch to the gut dropped him to his knees. Then his hair was grabbed, his head forced back. Through watering eyes, he saw the flash from a camera, and heard Murray say silkily, "That should do the trick. Send it off at once."


	4. Chapter 4

HOSTAGE

Chapter 4

Eric ran into the lab and sought out Calleigh. "I found his keys - out near the beach! It's got to be a message."

"He could have just dropped them."

"No, because he'd have realised when he got home - gone back. Someone's got to have taken him. There. On the beach. The keys were the only message he could leave. Calleigh… I'm right, aren't I?"

"I think you probably are. But who? Why? I mean, he's got enemies…"

"I know. God, Calleigh, I know! If they kill him…"

"Eric, we're not there yet. If he'd been killed, we'd know."

"We might not. If they've taken him somewhere… The 'glades… Anywhere."

Calleigh squeezed her colleague's hand. "Eric… don't think the worst. Not yet. It won't get us anywhere. Come on, we have to concentrate. Now, give me some ideas."

Eric sighed. "All right. There's a CCTV camera just down the street… It may have caught something. I'll get the data sent over."

The city transferred the data to them wirelessly, in minutes. Together, Eric and Calleigh examined the footage. As Eric had feared, the camera's view fell short of the condos, and it faced away from the beach. They checked everything between eight and nine the previous evening and saw nothing suspicious.

"Let's go back a bit… Make sure he got home…" They easily identified the white Lexus, passing the camera shortly before eight. Nothing appeared to be following it. "What now?"

Desperate for leads, they noted all the registration numbers of cars that passed in the critical hour when they assumed the abduction had taken place. Surprisingly, there weren't too many - it seemed to be the lull between coming home from work and going out for the evening. Eric sat on the computer, checking the numbers. Not sure what he was looking for, he waited for something to jump out at him.

After ten minutes, he said, "Do you know, out of forty-odd vehicles, eight seem to be carrying false number plates?"

Calleigh smiled ruefully. "That's Miami for you… Start with them, do you think?"

"I've got an idea… Suppose they've been watching him… The same car might be around on other days… Or earlier. He was late home yesterday."

They shared the work, Calleigh checking the day before, from five o'clock onwards, Eric working on the previous four days.

They found two 'regulars'. One was a compact, registered to a woman living in the same block as Horatio, which they dismissed as innocent. The other was a dark SUV, on false plates. They looked at each other. "That one?" They nodded.

The plates weren't stolen, but completely false. Calleigh murmured, "Let's ask Frank… See if he's got any thoughts…"

"He doesn't know about Horatio yet, does he? He'll be devastated."

Calleigh's laptop chimed, signalling an incoming email. "Just a minute…" She pressed a key to open the mail, and sat down suddenly. "Oh… my… God…"

"What?" Eric came to look over her shoulder.

Horatio's face was contorted in pain, blood all over it, and splashed on his shirt. On his knees, his hands behind his back. For a long few seconds, they both stared in shock.

Calleigh cleared her throat. "Well, he's alive…"

"Is there a message?"

"Just the picture…" Calleigh stood up and picked up the open laptop.

"Where are you going?"

"To find Dave Benton. If anyone can get anything out of this…" She looked at Eric. "Look, we've got two leads. You go and see Frank, see if you can do anything with the SUV. Dave and I will work on this." She noted his stricken face. "Eric… I'll tell you if we find anything… Promise."

Frank Tripp was shocked, but practical. "If you need more people on the ground…"

"Thanks, Frank, but we've got nothing to look for, at the moment. Look, we think this is the vehicle that took him, but the plates are false… Can you suggest anything?"

"Well… If they weren't stolen, then the plates were made up somewhere… Unfortunately, there are about three hundred places that do that in Miami."

"Do they keep records?"

"They're supposed to… but there's no central register, and I know loads go unrecorded… How good is the CCTV?"

"Not great… you know. Why?"

"Retailers sometimes put their name on the plate - as advertising."

"Borrow your computer?" Eric called up the CCTV shots of the SUV, and enlarged the registration plates. "There is something… along the bottom." He tried a different shot. "'Motormart'?"

"Big franchise. Lots of branches… About twelve in the city, I think."

"Better than three hundred."

"I'll get onto it. Let you know. Have you put out a BOLO for the vehicle itself?"

"I assumed they'd have ditched it, or changed the plates."

Frank chuckled, though without humor. "You'd think. But it's worth a try. I'll do it."

Eric walked back to the labs, trusting Frank to do everything he could. He found Calleigh and Dave pouring over computer screens, showing vastly enlarged images of sections of the photo of Horatio.

"Anything?" he asked.

Dave Benton answered. "Not much. It's almost certainly been taken today."

"Well, we know that! He was here yesterday."

"Yes, sorry… I can't trace the sender - too clever - signal bounced all over the place…"

"So nothing…"

"Whoa, hold your horses…" Their computer expert looked up, not annoyed but sympathetic. "Haven't finished yet. Look…" He replaced the enlargements with the original image. "See this arm? Guy - well, probably a guy - holding his hair? The watch face…?"

"Reflection?"

Calleigh said quietly, "That's what we were working on."

"I know, I'm sorry. Just… impatient…"

"We all are."

They pulled the enlarged image up again, and watched Dave working it, refining it, trying contrasts, filters, everything to clear a grainy and very imperfect shot.

"Is there anything?" Calleigh asked.

"Something…" Dave pressed one more key. "What do you think?"

"A wall… Painted wall… indoors… Is that something on it? A picture? Can you get it any clearer?"

"Not much… We'll lose it altogether…" But he continued playing with the image, and said suddenly, "It's a calendar. Office calendar…. 'June 2009'." He looked at his colleagues. "Old office building, do you think? Does that help?"

Calleigh patted his arm. "Everything helps, Dave. Thank you so much."

They got up to leave.

"Wait… Something else… Part of a name, printed on it… Company name? It's torn - only a couple of letters… 'FU'?"

Despite himself, Eric chuckled. "You're joking."

Dave smiled too. "I'm not. I really hope it helps. Let me know, will you?"


	5. Chapter 5

HOSTAGE

Chapter 5

"Get him up, Kurt."

Horatio felt himself lifted to his feet. He staggered slightly, then steadied himself. His nose and mouth stung, blood was dripping off his chin, and his eyes were smarting, but he was conscious that he hadn't really been badly hurt. The punches had been pulled. He had no doubt that, had the big blond man meant to damage him, he could have punched him across the room, breaking bones in the process. He sniffed the blood back, and blinked to clear his watering eyes, managing to focus on Murray. He was mildly surprised at the man's pained expression.

"I do hate violence…" he murmured.

"I'd never have guessed," Horatio muttered, his voice thick.

"I didn't say it's not sometimes necessary. Kurt, is there a functioning bathroom in this…" He gestured to his surroundings. "…god-forsaken place?"

"A basic one, yes."

"Then get our guest cleaned up. And find him something more suitable to wear."

If the man was surprised, he gave no indication. Horatio found himself walked back across the warehouse, down several corridors, and into an ancient-looking bathroom. There, Kurt locked the door behind them, and went to take the handcuffs off.

"No tricks, Lieutenant." He touched the gun, tucked in his waistband. "I have _no_ problem with violence."

Horatio nodded briefly. He was getting a feel for the dynamics of these people, and understood that the bodyguards had been instructed to keep him alive; not even to hurt him too badly. Unless he did something stupid, of course…

"The shower works, after a fashion. Help yourself."

The elderly shower was a poor thing, the water little more than tepid, but Horatio was grateful for the chance to strip off his filthy clothes and rinse away dirt and blood. There was a small bar of hard soap, and he did what he could to wash his hair and body. As he did, he was quietly looking for possible weapons. Nothing obvious. Even the shower was a fixed version, without a hose, which might have been useful. He rinsed his hair, then let the water pour over his injured face.

He stepped out, taking a towel from Kurt and rubbing his hair. There was a mirror over a sink, and he examined his nose and mouth. Bruised, and his own teeth had cut the inside of his lower lip, but he thought the damage was minor, and the bleeding had just about stopped.

"Can I shave?"

Kurt shrugged, and opened a small cupboard. Horatio had expected a refusal, had hoped for something with a sharp blade, but was handed an electric shaver. His face was sore, but he carefully removed over twenty-four hours' worth of stubble. He was taking as long as he dared, thinking… And glad to be out of the cell. He wondered whether he could break the mirror, and grab a shard of glass, but he was conscious of the gun in the big man's waistband. He glanced at him. Kurt was leaning against the door, watching him, his face completely expressionless.

"Don't suppose you've got toothpaste?"

A headshake.

Horatio used a finger and water, and scrubbed his teeth as best he could. There was a knock at the door. Kurt turned the lock and took some clothes from whoever was outside. He relocked the door and handed the bundle to Horatio. Some chinos and a sweatshirt, worn but seemingly clean, although a smell of cigarette smoke emanated from them. No underwear, so he pulled the garments on as he was, going commando. They fit fairly well, and he certainly felt more comfortable.

He indicated the toilet. "That working?"

A nod.

"Do I get any privacy? No?" He shrugged. "Fair enough…" He was way past being embarrassed, so he used the toilet, staring at Kurt until the man lowered his gaze.

Well, he couldn't stretch the visit out much longer… Kurt went to open the door, then indicated the bloody, discarded clothes. "You want those?"

Horatio was about to say no, then remembered the basic survival rule that _anything_ might prove useful, and picked them up. "I'll keep them."

As they walked back down the corridor, he realised that he wasn't handcuffed, but Kurt, as if reading his thoughts - again - said, "Don't try anything, Lieutenant."

"You've got the gun."

"And I wouldn't think twice about using it. But… the boss seems to think you're worth more alive…"

"And you always do what you're told?"

"Of course, when that person pays my wages. Don't you?"

Horatio chuckled. "Very rarely."

They reached the cell door, and he was shoved inside. As Kurt went to lock it, he suddenly turned back. "Are you hungry?"

Horatio realised he was. Apart from the so-called breakfast, he hadn't eaten since yesterday lunchtime. "Yep. And thirsty. Really thirsty."

The giant nodded, and went out, locking the door. Horatio sighed and sat down on the bed. He supposed it could be worse. He was clean, warmer, and they seemed not to want to hurt him too much… What happened when he had fulfilled his purpose, he didn't like to think… He looked round the cell again, wondering whether attacking the boarded-up vent would serve any purpose. He was glad he didn't suffer from claustrophobia, but he still found the inactivity hard to bear. His every instinct was to try to escape, or at least cause his captors some misery. However, logic told him that, faced with two armed heavies, he stood not the slightest chance of success, or even survival. And he wasn't ready to die yet… At least, not without a good reason. Certainly a better reason than his own pride.

He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes, gingerly feeling his battered nose. He didn't think it was broken, just sore. He began to wonder if they were looking for him. His team… A small smile played on his lips. Of course they were. He was conscious they had nothing to go on, but had no doubt they would be trying. That Murray was right - they would be distracted from everything else. He wondered if they'd found the keys. He just hoped no one else had, or he might get home to a wrecked condo and no car… _If_ he got home… He felt an unaccustomed wave of self-pity.

It seemed a long time before the door was unlocked, and Kurt entered, dumping a can of Coke, a large bottle of water, and a McDonalds bag on the table.

Horatio raised his eyebrows. "I'm honored."

"Sir Bernard's instructions. Rudi's cooking is…." He seemed lost for the right word and just waved a hand.

"Thank you." Horatio slid off the bed to go to the table.

"Before you eat - stand against the wall there…" And Kurt took a camera from his pocket.

"More pics? You joining my fan club?" He braced himself for another beating, but the blond man simply took a photo and went out, locking the door behind him.

The fast food tasted delicious. Horatio ate the lot, drank the Coke and some of the water, and lay down on the bed. Fed, watered and bathed… Certainly could be worse… He realised he had completely lost track of time. He thought it was evening, but it could have been anything. In the absence of something better to do, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

HOSTAGE

Chapter 6

In the layout room, Calleigh faced the rest of the team. Eric, Ryan, Natalia, Walter… And Frank had joined them. She regarded the anxious faces.

"I wanted to bring you up to date…" She went through what little they knew, then turned to Frank. "Anything to add, Frank?"

"Not much, but we found where the plates were made. One of my guys is bringing the shop owner in - he's one of the more reputable. Kept records… Of course, we don't know it's even the right car. It hasn't been seen again. But we haven't found it torched either, which may mean something…"

Calleigh nodded. "Right. Nat, Walter… I want you to concentrate on the calendar… That date, and a company with the letters 'fu' in the name - I know, but it's not funny, at the moment. Maybe something that closed down or moved around then…"

"No clue as to area?" Walter asked.

"None. It might even be outside the city, but we have to start somewhere."

"What shall I do?" Ryan asked.

"Join Frank - see if you can get any further with the SUV. Now… other cases…" There was a murmur of protest, and she added quickly, "I know. No one's going to concentrate until we get Horatio back. But I have to ask. Is there anything really urgent - like going to court in the next few days?"

To everyone's relief, the response was negative. "Okay, guys - get going." They stood up and left. Except Eric. He looked at Calleigh. "That pic… How badly hurt do you think he is?"

"Impossible to say, Eric. I've stared and stared at it. I think most of the blood is a nosebleed… though that may be wishful thinking on my part… But they're obviously keeping him alive for now…" She sighed. "I don't know. I wish they'd just make a demand - say what they want."

"I suppose they'll contact us again. So what now?"

"You and I are going to have a brain-storming session - recent cases, current cases…"

"You think there's a connection?"

"I have no idea. But they must want _something_ from us. Unless you've a better idea."

xxxxxxxx

The Motormart man was helpful. He clearly remembered a big dark man, with a 'foreign' accent, buying the plates.

"You must sell dozens," Frank said. "How come you remember him?"

"Because he tried to pay me with a benjamin… Which I refused."

"Please tell me he used a credit card," Ryan murmured.

"Sorry, no. Said he didn't have one. Made a big scene… I would have changed the bill, but I've had three forged ones in the last couple of months. Good forgeries - my little machine didn't pick them up - but the bank caught them. So I don't take them anymore. This guy eventually went and got change…" He looked rather shamefaced. "So some other poor sucker probably got a fake… I suppose I should have called you or something…"

Frank shrugged. "Your business… Would you recognise the man? Will you look at some mug shots?"

The man agreed. While he started on that long task, Frank drew Ryan to one side. "Do you know anything about these forged bills - good enough to fool the shops' machines?"

"I know there are a lot about," Ryan replied. "It's one of our 'back burner' cases. Not really made much headway on it. Horatio was talking about it the other day - said we needed to do more work on it."

"Oh well, it's one for later… Only concerned about Horatio at the moment…"

The man had done his best, but found no one he recognised amongst the mug shots. Ryan took him a cup of coffee, debating whether it was worth trying for a sketch. But, if the man wasn't on file, he wasn't…

Almost as an afterthought, Ryan asked, "Don't suppose you noticed what the man was driving?"

"Big SUV," he replied immediately. "I usually notice cars - occupational hazard - but I kept an eye on this one because he'd gone out and left me with the plates… It was a Ford, I think…"

"Did you happen to note its registration?" Frank said.

"Sorry, no. It was out-of-state… Georgia, maybe?" He looked doubtful. "Not sure about that. Noticed the paint job though - custom."

"Really? I thought it was black." Ryan had watched the CCTV multiple times.

"No. Very dark purple. Sweet job."

Frank raised his eyebrows at Ryan, then said, "We appreciate your time… I'll get an officer to take you back…"

"Sorry I couldn't be more help."

When the Motormart man had left, the two looked at each other. Frank murmured, "Well, that was interesting."

"Same car, do you think? It looked black on the CCTV…"

"It would - they're not very good on dark colors. I'll add it to the BOLO. Any dark purple SUV, regardless of registration…"

"Why would a bad guy use something so distinctive? That doesn't make sense."

"If criminals used sense, we'd never catch them. Fortunately, a lot of them are pretty damn stupid. And - 'big foreign guy'? Just someone's muscle, I'd bet. Brain, an optional extra."

xxxxxxxx

Walter and Natalia were plowing through page after page of records of Miami businesses, acquired from the Trade and Commerce Department, when Eric joined them.

"Come on," he muttered. "There can't be many with 'fu' in their names…"

"Oh no?" Walter looked up indignantly. "'Fuels'? 'Bio fuels', 'fuel services', 'funnels'… Not to mention 'full-this' and 'full-that' - and that's only the ones with 'fu' at the start of the word. Not so easy, Eric!"

"Sorry, okay? Just worried about him."

"Don't you think we all are?" Natalia added. "You wouldn't believe the mess this stuff is in. A lot of it isn't even computerized, or we could do some searches. You could help, instead of criticising…"

Eric nodded. "What do you want me to do?"

"Find us more names. Get on the computer dictionary and find words that have 'fu' in the middle, and could be business names… Or people's names, I guess…"

"That would be hundreds."

Walter said sharply, "So you know why it's taking a long time." His normal good-humor had completely vanished.

Eric shut up, and sat down to help. They worked in near-silence for some time, stopping only when Calleigh came in.

"You folks need to go home - get some rest."

"We can't just leave him!" Eric sounded desperate.

"Eric… It's nine o'clock… You can't work all night."

"I can. I will."

"No, I'm insisting," Calleigh said firmly. "Get some sleep. Early start, by all means. It won't help him if we all get overtired and start missing things…"

With great reluctance, they packed up, and trailed out of the building.


	7. Chapter 7

HOSTAGE

Chapter 7

The situation was getting to him. The inactivity, the stale air in the cell, the erratic meals, the bruises on his face and hands… Horatio wondered how long-term prisoners coped. Still, they at least had a few hours a day outside, fresh air, other cons to talk to… Actually, they had more than that - most of them. The standard of food in prisons was regulated by statute… The provision of exercise facilities guaranteed. Apart from the most serious cases, in solitary confinement, they were considerably better off than he was. He smiled at himself - _Only been here a day and a half, Horatio… Some stamina!_

He had hardly slept. His bruises ached, and he was rapidly acquiring more, on his elbows, hip-bones… wherever he was less than well-padded. The hard wooden bed made for uncomfortable rest. He had abandoned using the blanket for its original purpose, and folded it, and his soiled shirt and shorts, into some sort of cushioning. He had spent some time using his feet to trample the empty Coke can into a possible weapon, flattening it and molding a sort of fat dagger out of it. Then he had climbed on the chair and partially unscrewed the light bulb, but even total darkness hadn't brought sleep.

He was relieved when the door was unlocked, and breakfast delivered. Kurt looked at the darkened cell. "You need a new light bulb?"

"No, I unscrewed it. Couldn't sleep." He sat up. His head ached, and his eyes felt gritty from tiredness.

The giant nodded, reached up and screwed the bulb back in, restoring the light. "Breakfast."

"Rudi's cooking?"

Kurt shrugged. "It's food."

"Wait… How long do you intend holding me?"

"Until the boss says otherwise. Not long, I think."

"And then?"

Kurt smiled coldly. "I expect we'll drop you off somewhere."

_The middle of Biscayne Bay, probably…_

"Enjoy your breakfast." Kurt went out, locking the door.

The same thin porridge. Even the look of it was nauseating. He swallowed a spoonful, but knew that any more, and it wouldn't stay down. He abandoned it and took the cup of coffee back to the bed. It was slightly better than the previous day - stronger, hot, recognisably coffee. He leant back and sipped it slowly, wondering what their plans were for him today.

He looked round the cell again, eyes fixing on the boarded-up vent. More for something to do than anything else, he pulled the chair over and stood on it to make a closer examination. The boards - two, one above the other - were roughly nailed into the masonry. He got down and retrieved the only tool he had - the rolled up Coke can.

It was fairly useless, the aluminum far too soft, but it was marginally better than his fingers. Gradually, he pried a couple of the nails loose. He was working up a sweat. In fact, he thought wryly, it was the first time in days that he'd been really warm. He pulled the sweatshirt off, over his head, and tossed it on the bed.

It occurred to him that he might well get a beating or some other punishment for what he was doing, but he found it impossible just to sit, doing nothing. He worked another nail loose, then jammed his fingers behind the top board, and pulled. A tiny movement, and the faintest breath of fresh air, before it sprang back, narrowly missing his fingertips.

He got off the chair for a drink of water. The bottle was nearly empty. He was torn between waiting for Kurt to reappear, and continuing work on the vent. Activity won. The top board gave up the struggle quickly. Disappointingly, it uncovered only an inch or so of the opening. He could see little, but he could smell it had been raining. He drew in a lungful of fresh air. Then another. It immediately seemed to subdue his headache, and he started on the lower board with renewed energy.

It was more stubborn, but he could now get his fingers behind it… It gave quite suddenly, nearly unbalancing him, and something - it, or a nail, or the Coke can - slashed the palm of his left hand. He got down off the chair, and swore under his breath. It was a deep cut, dripping blood. He found his abandoned shirt, and wrapped it tightly round his hand. It hurt, enough to make him sit down on the bed for a few minutes, hugging the injured hand to his body.

"Idiot…" he murmured aloud. Very conscious that there were no washing facilities, and nothing to dress the wound with, he gingerly unwrapped his hand. Seriously deep, bleeding heavily, but not pulsing - no veins or arteries, thank God… He flexed his fingers, and found they all functioned - no tendons either then…

Rewrapping the injury, he found his discarded undershorts, and, using his teeth, tore off several strips of the thin cotton. With some difficulty, he bandaged his hand. _At least it's the left one… _Feeling suddenly cold, he retrieved his sweatshirt, and eased it back on.

_Well, hope it was worth it… _He climbed onto the chair and looked out. The vent was just above ground level. Outside, a deserted stretch of tarmac, shiny from a recent shower. But long-disused… The road surface was cracked, weeds growing through in places… He felt a surge of disappointment. There seemed little hope of attracting anyone's attention. Not that it was all bad. The fresh air was more than welcome. And sounds… He realised just how silent his prison had been. Now he could hear distant sounds… The raucous cry of a seabird. Faint music… somewhere. Even traffic, although a long way off…

He got down, returned the chair to its proper place, and sat on the bed. He felt faintly dizzy - lack of food, lack of sleep… The throbbing wound in his hand… Then he heard the door being unlocked. Time to pay for this little adventure…

Kurt came in, frowned, and looked round. Horatio braced himself. Rather surprisingly, the blond man laughed.

"You really are a nuisance, Lieutenant."

"Sorry," he said, not sounding it.

"It won't help you - there's nothing out there, you know."

"So can we leave it open? I'm suffocating in here."

"I don't think so… I'll send Rudi in to fix it." He leant forward and grabbed Horatio's hand. "You hurt yourself, eh?"

"Yeah. Serves me right, I know."

"Oh, it certainly does. But I suppose I'd better take a look."

Horatio snatched his hand back, wincing. "Why bother?"

Kurt sighed. "Because I've been told to look after you. You get blood poisoning, I lose my job. And we've got work to do tomorrow…"

"Work?"

"Just a bit of loading and unloading. You'll like it. It's in the fresh air." He hesitated, looking up. "What's that noise? Helicopter?"

"Sounds like it to me. They're always around. Aren't they?"

The big man frowned, quickly opened the cell door and went out, relocking it. Leaving Horatio wondering… And hoping…


	8. Chapter 8

HOSTAGE

Chapter 8

It seemed almost a race to get in early the next day, and everyone was there by seven. Calleigh called another review meeting.

"I was thinking," Natalia started the discussion. "We've been looking at hundreds of business records for the right name… Would we be better looking for business closures?"

"Probably would," Walter agreed. "Since June 2009? We can't be certain - old calendars get left up… And you know there's not a register of business closures - bankruptcies, yes, but not voluntary closures…It's quite hard to see who's trading and who isn't. I'm not making excuses…" he added quickly.

Calleigh interposed. "I know you're not. Try it that way… It's almost got to be a disused place - if you're going to hold a prisoner…"

"You haven't heard from them again?" Ryan asked.

"No, but I expect to." Calleigh forced herself to sound positive. "If they wanted to harm him, they'd have done so by now. He's held hostage, so they want something… Come on, let's do what we do… Go with the evidence… Anyone with new ideas - come to me."

xxxxxxxxx

The email arrived mid-morning.

"Well, he's in one piece, thank God." Eric looked over Calleigh's shoulder at the computer screen.

"Yes… Different clothes… Is it an old picture, do you think?"

"Don't know. Look at that background… Outdoors…"

"Stone building, and… where… a farm?"

"Can't tell. Not the 'glades… Not wild enough… That's maybe an orchard? Orange trees? I know, ask Dave." Eric smiled ruefully.

They passed the picture on to their expert. It didn't take him long to reach a conclusion. "Don't get excited - it's a fake." He looked at their faces. "Oh, not entirely - it is him… But the background's been changed, and not very well."

"Can you tell when it was taken? When the photo of him was taken?"

"Not definitively. But…" He enlarged Horatio's face. "He's got a hell of a bruise on his cheek - almost a black eye… So… since yesterday…? That's a guess."

"Nothing else?"

"Sorry, no. No reflections or anything this time. But ignore that background - it was almost certainly taken indoors - in artificial light."

Eric and Calleigh walked slowly back. "Why send that?" Eric asked. "What are they trying to do?"

"Distract us," Calleigh said. "Send us on a wild goose chase… Is that what this is all about?"

"Distract us from what? We went through all the current stuff…"

Frank Tripp stopped them. "Your SUV's been seen." He explained. "One of my boys saw it last night - noticed the paint job."

Eric frowned. "Where? Why the hell didn't he call it in?"

"Hey, steady on, not his fault! He was eating in a pizza joint, with his kids, noticed the car in the parking lot. Didn't know it was wanted till he came on duty today… Before you ask, nothing on the driver. But I can show you where it was…"

xxxxxxxx

"'Maddox Centrifuges'," Walter said. "Went out of business in two thousand and nine…"

"I used to _use_ one of them," Natalia murmured. "We had to replace it… It never worked properly…"

"Figures. But their warehouse was about two miles from where Tripp's man saw the SUV…"

"Add it to the list. How many is that?"

"Five, within four miles of the SUV. But that's the last… What next?"

"Check the sites… see if the buildings are still there…"

Using satellite imagery, they shortened the list. One of the sites had been redeveloped, two had been cleared. Two… Maddox Centrifuges and Sunshine Biofuels - near neighbors - remained as possibles… Abandoned sites, with a number of buildings on them. They took it to Calleigh.

"They're only possibles," Walter said. "The SUV might have been out of district… The calendar might have been sent to another company… In fact, calendars _usually _go to other companies, as advertising. And we don't even know the SUV's involved!" He shook his head. "Hell, this isn't evidence!"

Calleigh spoke patiently. "What do you suggest, Walter? We haven't _got_ any evidence…"

"I'm just saying…"

"I know what you're saying. But the SUV connection is strong… If we find it round one of those buildings… Yes, I'd like something better. Don't you think I'm desperate to get Horatio back?"

"Sorry, of course you are."

"Stay here. I'm going to get Frank back in. This is more his sort of thing."

In fact, she brought the whole team in. They were all so anxious, so unable to work on anything else, she knew they needed constant information.

Frank Tripp pointed to a map. "Right. The SUV was seen here… last night. Maddox is here… The biofuel place here… Now this whole area is empty, scheduled for redevelopment. So it's a likely place, even if it's not one of those two…"

"So we go in? Take SWAT?" asked Eric.

"Big risk, Eric… We don't know exactly where we're going, for a start. We go in mob-handed, they hear us coming… panic…" He hesitated.

"Horatio…" Calleigh murmured. "They might kill him."

"They might," Frank agreed. "Probably fifty-fifty between that and trying to use him as a bargaining chip. Don't think we can risk it. Need to go softly-softly…"

"I could go in on foot," Ryan suggested. "Have a look around."

"I'll come with you," Eric added, quickly.

"It's disused industrial. You boys are going to stand out like a sore thumb. No, I think we should put a bird in the air… Still need to be careful, but there are always helicopters buzzing about… We could use a private one, unmarked. Try and look like tourists. Calleigh?"

"All right." She deferred to the detective. "Will you go?"

"Would, but I hate helicopters… not good with 'em at all." At any other time, such an admission from the tough Texan would have elicited jokey remarks, but not now. "I thought, maybe Eric? You've used the thermal imaging stuff, right?"

Eric nodded. "You have to come in quite close for that to pick anything up."

Calleigh said quickly, "You'll have to play that by ear…"

It was agreed. They would take a helicopter - not a police one - over the old industrial park, looking for signs of activity. They would carry thermal imaging equipment. If there were positive results, SWAT would go in. Calleigh hoped she was doing the right thing. It seemed a very big risk indeed. And they needed more than a little luck.

And it seemed luck might be with them, when Eric reported back. "The old Maddox place… The SUV's there - as far as I can tell, it's the same one… And a white van. But two guys came out of the building and were watching us, so we didn't go in close. We got the hell out of it."

Frank's face was grim. "Right, I'll call SWAT."


	9. Chapter 9

HOSTAGE

Chapter 9

The SWAT commander signalled to Frank. "All clear on this level, Detective."

Frank followed them in. Two men lay dead on the ground. "No one else around?"

"Not on the ground floor. Just checking the upper floors, but there's dirt on the stairs - undisturbed - so probably no one else…"

"Oh, Jeez… Don't say he's not here…"

The SWAT officer looked puzzled.

"Horatio Caine… If he's not here, we've just wiped out our only leads…"

One of the SWAT team called out. "Hey, look at this…"

They both entered a warehouse-like area, and crossed to a pile of boxes. The top one was open - and full of one-hundred dollar bills.

"Must be millions here…"

"Don't get excited, pal," Frank murmured. "If that's genuine, I'm Donald Duck." He turned away, uninterested, at the moment, in piles of money, fake or otherwise.

Gun still drawn, he explored the ground floor, and almost stumbled down an ill-lit flight of steps.

"Miami-Dade Police! Anyone down here?" he called. Listened… Silence… Gun levelled, he walked down the steps and into the corridor. He knew he should have called SWAT, to lead the way in, but some instinct took him forwards. "Hello? Anyone here? Horatio!"

"Frank!" The voice was muffled but seemed nearby.

"Horatio? Where are you?"

"Cell. On your right."

Frank found the key, hanging on a hook and unlocked the door. "God, am I glad to see you! Are you okay?" Frank went up to him, noting the pallor, and bruising… A man tense to the point of trembling. But smiling. And standing. In one piece. "I'll get Rescue…"

"Don't need it, Frank. And put the gun away…" Horatio sat down suddenly on the bed.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice shaking with nerves. "Just… heard the gunfire… you know? Didn't know who was shooting, or who was winning."

Frank realised Horatio had been preparing to fight for his life. "_We_ were, of course. There's a couple of big guys dead… Is there likely to be anyone else around?"

"Probably not. Their boss… Don't think he'll be around here somehow."

"Can you give me a description? We'll get after him…"

"Heard of the White Knight?"

"I thought he was an urban myth."

"So did I, but he's real enough. Englishman. Sir Bernard Murray - well, that was the name he gave me. And he's albino. Pure albino, so you can't exactly miss him… But I suspect he'll be long gone - no offense to your guys… And I still have no idea what this was about… He said he wanted to distract us… that we were getting close to something…" Horatio was talking uncharacteristically fast. Frank realised he was barely holding it together.

"Well, there's millions in counterfeit bills upstairs. Do you think that's it?"

"Really? We knew there were a lot around. And we suspected this outfit." Horatio laughed, a little unsteadily. "The White Knight's been running rings round us all year - you know that. We were nowhere near catching him. If he thought that, he was seriously misinformed."

Frank caught sight of the bloody and bandaged hand. "You're hurt…"

"Just a cut…"

"Oh, hell!" Frank pulled out his police radio. "I forgot Calleigh. She's waiting for news." He spoke into the radio. "Calleigh? I've got him…. Yes, he's okay… Bit ragged round the edges. It's secure - you can bring the car in."

Horatio stood up. "Let's get out of here." In the yard, he paused by the two bodies. "Rudi… And Kurt… Don't know the surnames… Kurt was quite good to me…"

Frank shook his head. "How can you call any of this 'good'?"

"He was only doing what he was told. Loyal to his boss… Put it this way - he could have done me a lot more damage than he did. A lot… And this -" He indicated his left hand. "- was self-inflicted."

"Whatever. It needs seeing to."

On cue, a Hummer ground to a halt, Calleigh jumped out and ran up to them. "Horatio…" She seemed just to manage to stop herself from hugging him, surrounded as they were by police and members of SWAT, and touched his cheek instead. "Are you really all right? Look at your face… Oh, and your beautiful hands…"

Frank raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. "Take him away, Calleigh. And get him looked at, whatever he says. You go. I'll be here for a while."

As she drove, Calleigh glanced at her boss, in the passenger seat. "I'm taking you to Dade Memorial. You're not going to argue, are you?"

"Nope. How did you find me?"

"That, boss, is a long story… And how did they get you? And why? Was it really just to distract us from a case?"

"They had something planned for tomorrow…" Horatio leant back on the headrest and closed his eyes. "Let's go through it all later. I'm too tired to think straight…" He actually felt, not so much tired, as like a puppet with the strings cut. "Is everyone okay?"

"What do you think? Desperate to find you… In fact, they'll all be waiting for news… I must tell them. But let's get you seen first."

xxxxxxxxx

The hospital stitched his hand, bandaged it, and, over his protests, put his arm in a sling. His facial injuries proved only to be bruising. He was dispatched with antibiotics, and instructions to rest. And the telephone number of a counsellor, which he politely put in his pocket. In the waiting area, he was surprised to find Calleigh had been replaced by Eric.

This time, he really thought he was going to be hugged, but Eric, thwarted by the sling, changed it to an arm round his shoulders. "Thank God you're okay." He gestured to the bandages. "Or more or less. What did they do to you?"

"Nothing. Cut hand. Hospital said I should keep it raised… Where's Calleigh?"

"Gone to tell the others. Come on, I'll take you home…" He reached into his pocket. "You'd better have these back." He handed over the keys.

Horatio smiled. "Glad you found them… It was all I could do…"

They drove back in silence, and Eric sensed Horatio was past talking at the moment.

At the condo, he made to get out of the car, but Horatio rested a hand on his arm. "You go. I'm fine."

"I was going to… I don't know… cook you dinner, or something…" But he could tell his boss didn't want anyone around just now. "You should take a few days off."

"I'm fine, truly." He smiled fondly at his colleague's worried face. "Eric… I need some sleep. I'll see how I feel, but I expect to see you all tomorrow."

xxxxxxxxx

Horatio took the sling off and undressed. He pitched the sweatshirt and chinos into the trash, wondering, momentarily, who they had belonged to. Maybe someone less lucky than him… He protected his left hand with a latex glove, and stood under the hot shower for a long time. He felt exhausted, drained, but accepted it was mostly reaction, and relief… He had hardly admitted it to himself, but he had not really expected to get out alive.

He knew he ought to eat, but he was mildly nauseous, as he had been most of the day. And he had intended to walk over to the beach - lay a ghost or two - refusing to give up the pleasure of one of his favorite spots. Well, it could all wait. He slid between the crisp sheets, feeling the comfort of the expensive mattress supporting his bruised body, and fell almost instantly asleep.

Epilogue

At a private airstrip, north of Miami, a Gulfstream business jet took to the air in the late evening twilight. Sir Bernard Murray watched the city falling away beneath him, and experienced a touch of regret that he would not see it again for a while. If ever… Now they had to fly into Canada, refuel, then head east to Russia…

Altogether regrettable… He had been a day away from off-loading the last of the fake hundred-dollar bills… Still, it was just money… and he had plenty of that. In truth, the money didn't interest him that much now. It was more the thrill of getting away with it, of outwitting law enforcement…

He accepted he had underestimated the Miami crew, and their devotion to their boss… True, his Russian thug, Rudi, hadn't helped… Hadn't ditched his ridiculous purple car when told to. Well, he wouldn't be needing a car anymore. The albino smiled thinly. The Rudis of this world were ten a penny. The Horatio Caines… rather rarer. A tiny part of him was glad that, in the final event, he hadn't had to order the man's death.

He took a sip from a crystal glass of single malt, and sighed, as the plane banked north.

THE END

**(Author's note: 'The End - of Part 1'... I can't really see Horatio letting this go easily, so it may warrant a sequel. And I know I've left a few loose ends. (Although this is CSI Miami, right, so we're used to those!) To those of you who've reviewed, thank you for your kind comments. S)**


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